Rain
by xx.mischief.managed.xx
Summary: [one-shot] He remembers her dance, watching her move, and her blue eyes. And before can stop himself, he’s dancing with her. And he remembers them being fourteen all over again. PansyDraco


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Summary: He remembers her dance, watching her move, and her blue eyes. And before can stop himself, he's dancing with her. And he remembers them being fourteen all over again. Pansy/Draco

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Rain

one-shot:

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rain

He remembers that day long ago back in first year. She sat next to him on the train, not saying a word. Examining her, he saw a girl with blonde curly hair, ribbons tied at the end of her plaits. Her face - thin and pale, but her blue eyes caught his attention. He remembers her staring at him, until - like every other boy in his position - he asked her why she was staring at him.

She didn't say a word; just left the compartment.

He remembers that day in second year when she came up to him, asking for help with Transfiguration. She told him that McGonagall was out to kill her, and she needed all the help she could get. She also told him that she knew he excelled at the class - unlike the rest of the Slytherins.

He smirked, telling her he had better things to do than tutor a failing girl. And ever since that moment, he regretted his decision. Watching her slither away, he felt pride in what he did, but disgust filled his body; who'd want a girl like that in Slytherin - not strong enough to take up his rude comment.

He remembered in third year - the year he recognized girls - where he sat next to Parkinson in Transfiguration. He remembers being late, snatching the seat next to her, avoiding Millicent Bulstrode, whose face recently erupted with red pimples. He remembers the Parkinson girl giving him parchment because he forgot his own. Muttering a thank you, he listened to McGonagall's constant droning, explaining something about pillows and frogs. He didn't remember; he ended up looking at Parkinson the whole class, not even knowing why.

Cornering him after class, she asked why he spent more time looking at her plaits than McGonagall's _interesting _discussion. Before he spoke a lie, he spoke the truth first. He told her he wasn't staring at her plaits but at her. And he didn't know why he said that, but he wished he took it back, because she ran. Fast.

He avoided her the rest of the year, sneaking peeks at her occasionally.

In fourth year, he remembers taking notice of Parkinson. She no longer had plaits but straight blonde hair. She grew up, but no matter what, she always had those blue eyes. Secretly, he called her that; Blaise eventually found out about it, but his teasing only lasted for a few weeks until it got old.

He remembers the Triwizard Tournament, but most of all, he remembers the Yule Ball. He remembers wondering who to ask. Blaise suggested Parkinson, but that only resulted in a red imprint on his cheek. He remembers a few pretty girls asking them, but he remembers comparing them to Parkinson. Finally, he traipsed up to her, and asked her flat out if she'd go with him to the dance. He was nervous; surely, she'd already be asked. She said yes.

He remembers her looking radiant, even though whispered something about her resembling a pig. He remembers taking a look at her, seeing if she looked like a pig. Surprisingly, she didn't. He remembers going up to Weasel, telling him that his date looked radiant, unlike his, who recently dumped him for someone else.

He remembers holding her tight, guiding her across the floor. At times, she sigh, and other times, she laughed - randomly, at times. He'd ask her why she laugh, and she'd just shake her head. And when she did it again, he became quite irritated and asked what was wrong. She smiled and told him she doesn't remember a time him being this nice to her.

What are you talking about, Parkinson, he remembers saying. I'm not nice.

Sure, you're not, Malfoy.

And he leaves that be, and they dance to the music, the music growing softer, and their space becoming tighter, hands clinging against another.

He remembers bidding her goodnight. He remembers chickening out, and just giving her a kiss on the cheek. She smiles, disappointed, though, and retreats to her room.

Fifth year came, and he remembers asking out Parkinson. He remembers her turning him down, saying she already had a date with Blaise. He remembers that night, punching a hole in the wall, cursing Blaise's name. He never knew he could get so worked up about a girl. He didn't act this way. His presence was cool, untouched; now, he felt like a monster.

He remembers grabbing his broom, taking a ride in the rain. It was stormy and everybody that went to Hogsmeade must've been at Madame Pudifoots, kissing. Potter and Short Weasel kissing. Weasel King and Granger kissing. Parkinson and Zabini kissing. He grimaced, hoping to push the thought out.

And he hops on his broom, taking off. Even though it's lightning, he doesn't really care. Hail is coming down; surely, he'll get bruised. He tells himself he's not doing it for the girl. He doesn't care about her - doesn't care about anybody. He's a Slytherin. Slytherins don't feel. They feel emptiness. Not love.

But he doesn't remember being in love with Parkinson - at least that's what he thinks.

He remembers lightning striking his broom. He remembers falling, plummeting to the ground. He remembers waking up in the Hospital Wing, an arm draped around his waist, hoping it not to be Chang's Ravenclaw friend, whose name he couldn't remember. But as he turned over, he saw blonde hair, a smile, and blue eyes. But as seconds past, all he saw were stars and fireworks, and the taste of lip gloss still fresh in his mouth.

He remembers in sixth year when he asked Parkinson out, again. This time, she accepted. He remembers her expression - very exuberant - and when he thinks about that expression, he smiles, and he forgets that he's not supposed to feel. He tries to think she's just a distraction, or just another woman to grow up with, marry and produce offspring, and raise them to be Voldemort's followers.

He remembers liking her. He knew he could like her; he couldn't hate her. Right? Secretly, he'd bring her flowers. He didn't want others to know. She'd just sigh, and she'd tell him that he should've been put in Hufflepuff, jokingly, though. Of course, he called her hurtful names, trying to cover up his feelings.

He remembers loving her. And then, he tried to stop loving her. It didn't work. He ran, he hide; nothing worked. If his father figured out, he surely would never hear the end of this. Slytherins weren't supposed to feel. Only pansy Gryffindors - like Weasel, Potty, and Mudblood.

He remembers hanging out with Nott, trying to regain his emptiness. He remembers whispering naughty things in Slytherin girls either, not respecting them like before. He remembers Parkinson getting the hint and moving on. But most of all, he remembers their fight. He can remember her outfit, her scent, and her bright blue eyes, telling him what a bloody wanker he was.

And in seventh year, he remembers talking to Blaise one day, discussing feelings. He didn't know how the subject appeared, but he just remembers talking about it.

How's you and Parkinson? He'd ask this in a hushed voice, hoping to not turn any curious heads.

We're over. We've been over for awhile. He remembers replying with a cool tone, taking a sip of his tea.

Didn't want to feel? Didn't want to love?

Who said I loved Parkinson?

She did. You did. He'd take another sip of his chip, getting up from his chair. Maybe you aren't the only one who needs a reality check. If you think breaking up with her was the reason to not love anymore, then you're wrong. It'll haunt you. And it's not wrong to love. Everybody's loved.

And Malfoy remembers contemplating Blaise's words. He remembers sitting out in the rain, letting the water drops heals his wounds, his heart. He remembers their relationship; he remembers her, and her blue eyes.

Before graduation, he remembers one dark night, one dark night that changed everything. He remembers it raining. Hard. He remembers her dance, watching her move, and her blue eyes. And before can stop himself, he's dancing with her. He sees her twirling, and he sneaks up behind her, and twirls her.

He remembers the rain beating against his face. He remembers every detail about her: her wet skin, her wet hair - then in plaits - and her blue eyes, shining. He remembers their moves, their surrounding. Most of all, he remembers them.

He remembers when they're fourteen and carefree. He remembers dancing with her. In the rain.

He remembers kissing her, never letting her go, muttering apologies to her. He remembers telling her that he regretted leaving her. He remembers telling her that he'll always love her.

And tonight, it'll just be them.

That he remembers.

And as he closes memory lane, he'll never forget the memories that he had with her, now locked away in his heart. Because he'll never see her again. And all he has is the memories; and that's enough for him.

And he remembers the rain, the dance, the kiss, the passion, the blue eyes, and her.

And he remembers them being fourteen all over again.


End file.
